He made it really easy on me to do my job because he was helping me stay calm, too.
No problem. If there’s anything else I can tell you, I will.
I never thought about those missing legs again. I immediately showed Cathi the conversation between Doc and me. We were both laughing and crying at the level of inappropriate humor that only Josh Wetzel could think of on the brink of death. We talked until we were asked for the fifth time to turn off our phones on our connecting flight. Even though we were so desperate to take off to Birmingham, we were equally desperate to hug and smile and reread this report—a moment that could not be interrupted with airplane safety protocol. Cathi, not missing a beat, told the flight attendant, “Look, my son, her husband, was just injured in Afghanistan, and we are talking to the people who are taking care of him, so why don’t you go up there and do your little seat belt demonstration, and we will turn this off when we are ready!” We meant no disrespect to the flight attendant, who was just doing her job, but we were not in a mental state to handle any sort of rules. We’d thrown the rulebook out the window as soon as we’d received the call about Josh.
Really, I had thrown the rulebook out after April 10, when I had received my first communication blackout email—an email notifying the families that there would be at least forty-eight hours of no contact with any of the soldiers. I wasn’t sure why we had been issued a communication blackout, but I honestly didn’t think too much about it. They had briefly talked about communication blackout at the Family Readiness Group (FRG) meetings, but it’s not like we were getting to hear from them every day anyway. Forty-eight hours without hearing from Josh was not abnormal, but I later learned that the banned contact time was so the family of an injured or a deceased soldier could be notified before they heard the bad news from somewhere else.
On April 12, stateside spouses and families were notified of the first death of a Tomahawk Battalion soldier. Josh’s classification in the Army was 2nd ID, 1-23 Infantry (Tomahawk) Battalion, A Company, 2nd Platoon (the Earthpigs). When we received emails saying “Loss of a Tomahawk Soldier,” it meant someone in the 1-23 Battalion was killed. It could have been a different company (about 150 soldiers) or platoon (about 30 soldiers), but within the 800 people he deployed with.
I remember feeling the color draining from my face when I read “Loss of a Tomahawk Soldier” in the subject line of the email. Loss? Meaning what? Someone… died? Already?
I skimmed the email, half reading and half thinking about what might have happened. Was this an attack or the wrong place at the wrong time? Oh God, what is his family going through right now? Have I met his wife? What are the guys going through? I mean, it happened right there in front of them; how are they supposed to go on? Is there more to come? My mind was racing. Military spouses can’t help but wonder if there is more coming, either in a specific instance or in the near future. We don’t sit in the stands and watch this war take place; someone else has to fill us in. Are we winning or losing? Is the Taliban figuring us out, or are they just occasionally lucky? How do we know? The guys aren’t allowed to tell us anything. Things were going to happen, and we were not going to be given any details about it. No answers, no reassurance.
I think many assume the spouses of deployed soldiers just read an email like that and think “Whew! It’s not my husband/wife.” I can’t speak for anyone else, but I only thought that the first two or three times. After that, I was constantly preparing myself to read about someone I knew. Someone Josh was close to—his friend. How far was a bullet or explosion away from someone we cared about? How much danger was Josh really in? Was this his friend? What do I do if I see his family on post? Did I need to start getting used to this? Did Josh know it was going to be like this?
Now I was the spouse who’d received actual news while others were sent the blackout email. It wasn’t their first, and it wouldn’t be our last, but this time I was on the inside—I knew before the rest. Instead of the feeling of quick relief that I wasn’t receiving “the call,” I was now getting texts and letting calls go to voice mail. People were checking in on Josh. I did my best to keep my mind anchored to At least it wasn’t an officer at my door…, but there was only so much comfort that could provide until I could actually lay eyes on my husband. Finally done with flying, Cathi and I were picked up by our respective parents and began the drive to Josh’s former home in Glencoe. According to all the missed communication showing up on our phones, there was already a gathering at the house waiting for us. I knew it would be good for people to see me and at least hug me, but I hoped that no one would be asking questions or wanting to listen in on the scheduled phone calls.
Cathi and I made it clear that we would be together so our informants could update us both by calling me. The Department of the Army agreed to call us every two hours with specific details (per Cathi’s instructions) of Josh’s condition. Not all the news was wonderful, but at the end of every message was the confirmation that he was stable and confirmed for transport out of Afghanistan to a halfway point
